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Go out with you? Why not... Do I like to dance? Of course! Take a walk along the beach tonight? I'd love to. But don't try to touch me. Don't try to touch me. Because that will never happen again. "Past, Present and Future"-The Shangri-Las

Wednesday, March 14, 2007


I was out sick the other day, and spent a good bit of time considering the mattress situation. The mattress, along with the bedframe, was a generous donation from my friends the Steibs, way back in the late nineties. It had been a guest bedroom bed, and everyone in my social circle has had carnal relations on it, excepting myself. I've often joked that I feel close to my friends when I sleep on this bed because it has so much of their DNA soaked into it. That mattress had a liquid center, although under my stewardship it has no doubt gone dry. It is an unattractive affair by now; it has worn down until it looks like part of an art installation. I've considered writing a monologue about it, simply because the thing would look so stark hanging on the wall behind me in some little venue like Birmingham Festival. But how would one keep such a monologue from turning into a deadening exercise in solipsism? Kind of like this blog, only with the blog you can skip around or stop reading without my noticing.

Anyway, the mattress: I'm about to replace it, but I'd rather have the replacement delivered than tie it to the hood of my Saturn and try to lug it inside myself; furthermore I want to fix up the joint a bit more in terms of bookshelves, etc. I've been abstaining from such accouterments of baseline civilization under the theory that squalor both costs less and encourages me to move. Moving is essential in the long run because I want to make a go of a real acting career before it's all dust and ashes.

Everything changed recently when a friend insisted on seeing my home, ran her white glove over the place, and told me in no uncertain terms that my lifestyle was unacceptable. This was a conclusion I'd been tiptoeing around for years, and now I'm trying to come to terms with almost a decade's worth of squalor accumulation. Buying a mattress that doesn't have springs bursting out and open tears in the material will be a big step in that.

Anyway, here's some instructions for easy DYI Punk Rawk Majickque from one of my favorite comics pros who still works with superheroes, Grant Morrison. Apply at will, particularly to my aforementioned troll neighbor. Don't use it to ask for his death, though; I'm drawing back from the earlier call for the guy's death because I don't want a big karmic blowback. Just ask for what I need, which could be phrased as "He moves or is evicted."

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